


time, time again

by cordialcount



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Collection: Purimgifts Day 3, Consensual Somnophilia, Dreams, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 05:30:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/694698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cordialcount/pseuds/cordialcount
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Its wings slice across the clouds at an angle she doubts is safe, but she trusts her ability to fold physical laws. She's more badly upended by the discovery of sex split between dreaming and reality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	time, time again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tricksterquinn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tricksterquinn/gifts).



Ariadne knows why she's here, of course.

1) Arthur is not that old. The difference between them that spins her every time she cups her hand around his knee and he refuses to flinch, now, is how far he lets his work saturate his life. Ariadne builds houses in her head in which dreamshare is a room with a door. Arthur deals with the stripped vulnerability of plastic tubing by tearing down his barriers and absorbing information, burying Arthur himself in a haystack, until she can watch him seated at her dinner table and learn nothing at all in the parabola of his fork moving to his arresting mouth. So when he lets her know he wants something, she seizes it; she shares his selfishness, wants that glimpse of his internal architecture, to capture something all her own.

2) "Best orgasm of her life, Katrina told me," he says, "hooked to the PASIV while her girlfriend fingered her in the waking world," keeping his face entirely professional while kissing the inside of her wrist. Okay. She's curious.

 

* * *

 

She's in a plane over the dreamscape from their last job. Its wings slice across the clouds at an angle she doubts is safe, but she trusts her ability to fold physical laws. She is more badly upended by the discovery of sex split between dreaming and reality. The ignition of her skin, the muscles of her thighs, take mental precedence.

"God," she says, "Arthur, you and a cock ring are going to need a lesson together very soon," but the concept of Arthur bound and nuzzling the backs of her knees whirls the landscape all the faster. Gray and charcoal in the ruined city, white, shale, fawn, touches of magnolia like his breath tracing the arch of her feet. It is a beautiful fucking waste of a flight. She cannot see outside the window, cannot not even if her eyes have not turned to kaleidoscopes, not while she spirals out of the sky in a burst of _yes_ that is probably Arthur doing no more than sucking her toes. The madness in her legs rises. She can imagine nothing but the warm sweep of his gaze over her breasts as he mouths upward, inch by inch along her tendon, rocking back and forth on her apartment's wretched tan carpet to the rhythm of his tongue.

It stops. She's left with the aftershocks, but his lips right where they're supposed to be, aren't, and she fights down the molten residue of a shudder to coax the plane back in the air. She is immensely grateful for the heights of the skyscrapers, as the horizon still skews off parallel, her body both grounded and undergoing—adiabatic expansion, she thinks, searching for a clinical descriptor for being too small for what she feels. "You're a bastard," she mutters. "The only reason you don't have twenty of your own is that you're a terror at getting women off."

The pressure bracing her back is not just gravity buckling in, Ariadne realizes. Arthur half-kneels to press his chin into her shoulder, then leans in more, a little awkward in the cockpit but the good kind of close: his eyelashes close enough to brush her cheek, and a smile that says tough luck, but not cruelly. Distracting nonetheless. "This is not helping me pilot at all," she complains.

"I'm not staying. I only wanted to see you, I can touch you fine up there." 

Even as she twists herself on her chair to get more friction, shove him into the floor and fuck him raw, his Beretta materializes in his hands. _You'll come when you crash_ , she hears as he kicks out.

The challenge is undermined by how eagerly he spreads her open back in the apartment. She's focusing down to her cunt, her folds wet and swollen, within minutes of dream time. Time in which to be grateful they've come on and off Somnacin so often the usual languor doesn't affect them, because every second after she slips her fingers into herself and feels his cock there instead—her legs spread and hips pushing into the control panel heedless of the plane lifting or falling—has her soaring, wanting his knuckles cradling her throat or rubbing up hard against her clit. 

The moment hangs before her, but she is too much for it, her fingers shaking too hard inside herself to reach, and then something outside the dream condenses, and she tightens with it, tightens on the cock she knows is there. Her head bangs somewhere and the whole control panel blazes up like a bridge of stoplights. In the middle of laughing she is suddenly so good at this, this being fucked open a layer down, that she fits and finds her place. Comes.

Waking up is deliriously quick. She catches him before he can even draw himself out of her and tries to wrap him closer for the withheld touch of his skin, the solidity of his body. It's just an urge to debrief your dream, she tells herself, then laughs again. The first time she'd gone under with Arthur, she had felt guilty glancing at the fond curve of his back when his Penrose had just blown her axioms of fact and failure, but she no longer sees boundaries between their partnership and their dreaming. The wet slide of her thighs on her seat as he tosses his pants in a hamper are only one exhibit.

The nice smooth way her head knits back to normal doesn't work for her limbs, unfortunately. Ariadne hits Arthur on the nose while trying to pat his neck. "Equipment takes a lot to replace, don't hurt it," he says as he tucks the world's finest fucking machine back in its briefcase. "Besides, it's not the PASIV's fault. Was it that bad?"

"Screw you too, Arthur. You saw my face." He grins. She swats at him. "Or, you know, you should give it a spin yourself."

**Author's Note:**

> [Image originally included](http://i.imgur.com/7U1zNmh.png), [source.](http://severn-rosebud.tumblr.com/) Ariadne's expressions are just [full of wonder](http://i.imgur.com/mSmE1Ic.png) ([source](http://rutarut.tumblr.com/)).
> 
> Dear tricksterquinn, your letter was marvelous and SO ARE YOU. Joyous Purim and same for the year to come!


End file.
